


High Treason

by Amethyst97Skye



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, College of Winterhold - Freeform, Denial of Feelings, Dubious Consent, Duelling, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fear of Discovery, Magic, Minor Canonical Character(s), Nudity, POV Third Person Omniscient, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Secrets, Sexual Fantasy, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-19 00:03:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11301582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst97Skye/pseuds/Amethyst97Skye
Summary: Winter is coming. Ancano cannot leave the College, and when an unnamed mage arrives unannounced, he must consider where his loyalties lie and if his beliefs are worth dying for.





	1. The Widow to the Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phoenixquest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixquest/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Relieving the Tension](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1332577) by [phoenixquest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixquest/pseuds/phoenixquest). 



Around noon, when he first crossed the courtyard, the sky overhead had been astonishingly clear, almost blue instead of its usual snow grey. It had taken him quite by surprise, but from his extensive experience, he knew such good weather never lasted long. When he emerged from the Hall of the Elements after meeting with the Arch Mage, darkness was beginning to dawn and night threatened to crawl ever closer.

Even for Nords, going outside, after dark, in Winterhold, was nothing short of a death sentence.

Clouds shot across the sky like arrows fired from a Bosmer’s bow and snow fell without pause. The heavy flakes buried the planters of mountain flowers and weighed down the wild, emerald green leaves of the bushes that surrounded the statue of Shalidor, but the bright red berries shone through the ticket of their prison, imitating predatory eyes flashing in the moonlight. He was reminded of the den of bears his guard stumbled upon on their return from Solitude in the summer, and at night one could never be sure if it was the wind or the wolves howling at the hidden moon.

Shaking such thoughts from his mind, he focused on putting one foot in front of the other, all the better to stay standing on such treacherous terrain. The heated wards inscribed into the stone pathways were, however, abysmally ineffective; near half of the frozen rain that fell did not melt, much less evaporate, leaving the ground wet and exceptionally prone to freezing. Three times he nearly fell, and he thanked Auri-el that there was no one around to witness such graceless indecency.

He was just circling back towards the Hall of Countenance, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of fresh Firebrand Wine, seared slaughterfish and light lavender dumplings when, suddenly, the gates that guarded the College of Winterhold opened.

Of their _own_ accord.

There was a ritual that opened the gates, one the scholars _and_ the Arch Mage had neglected to share with him, but from his vantage point, he could not see the tell-tale columns of Magelight rising into the sky. He did, however, see an ominously black robed figure stalking towards him. Once out of their reach, the gates closed ranks, groaning and growling like undead animals, _clanking_ shut with a deafening cry, followed swiftly by a shower of icicles. One moment, it sounded like cold thunder; the next, a mischievous child giggling, but he was left with the soft sobbing of an unidentifiable woman echoing in his ears.

In the space of a heartbeat, he was bombarded with a torrent of emotions – happiness and sadness, joy and despair, pain and pleasure – leaving him utterly breathless. He leant against and clung to the nearest pillar for support, darting around the base as quick as his trembling legs could carry him when, without warning, the faceless creature raised its head and a pair of bright burning eyes took hold of his own by the throat.

He did not dare move, for fear it would see him. He did not dare shout for help, for fear it would hear him. He did not dare breathe, for fear it would chase him, catch him… and _kill_ him.

Out the corner of his left eye, he spied the upright beast bow before the statue of Shalidor. He emerged from the pillar’s lengthening shadow to watch it circle around and enter the Hall of the Elements.

At the very last second, with but a slither of Candlelight illuminating their tattered travelling cloak – it was patched, frayed, and mauled by moths – did it turn and look back, its roasting red eyes pinning him to the spot. He had never seen their like before. Nothing could compare to the wild fear pounding in his ears, clouding his eyes, and tearing at his heart.

A flash of lightning made him blink. A _crash_ of thunder made him jump.

The ground was wet.

He slipped, tripped and fell, scrambled to his feet and ran through mounds of snow that rose to his knees. With the doors of his Hall in sight, blind with panic, he charged inside, slammed the door shut, dropped the deadbolt and tore up the stairs to delve under his silk covers. He grabbed a magnificent snow-white bear pelt for extra protection and prayed to Auri-el that he would live through the night.

\---

He imagined the gate grinding open to admit a Daedric Lord, one with designs on his preciously perfect soul, but he woke, instead, to the sound of metal creaking.

A door opening, he decided.

Specifically, the door directly below and across the room from him.

When he had been quite certain the monster had not come to assassinate him, he had stripped out of his soaked robes, drawn a large, hot bath, and helped himself to a silver goblet of Firebrand Wine. He did not have the patience to cook or the stomach to eat, but he had a few dumplings left over from the day before, and they stated his appetite well enough.

He had then made a point of documenting his extraordinary sighting, but beyond a vivid description of its eyes, and the degrading effect they had upon him, he had nothing to report to the Arch-Mage, never mind anything worthy of delivering to his mistress. Ultimately, he set his parchment on fire and watched the black words burn.

Dressing with expected efficiency, he stepped out through the ward barring entrance to his room and leant over the barrier to spy on the inhabitants of the floor below.

He glided right, towards the stairs, and from his vantage point, he could see that the Arch-Mage’s Expert Destructionist Scholar, the Altmer Faralda – an absolutely enchanting academic – was still sound asleep. Her room was directly left of the door on the ground floor, and, continuing in that direction, there was a now empty enclosed dining area, and left of that he knew to be the quarters of Drevis Neloren, the so-called Expert Illusionist,

Beneath, behind and above him stood the grand spiralling stone staircase that led up to the roof. Directly right of that, as one descended the stairs, was the room belonging to an awfully arrogant Breton, the Expert Conjuration Scholar, Phinis Gestor. A large store room followed, and the first floor was completed with a dorm that had not been touched since long before his arrival.

He had never been able to pass through the wards, and it had not been from a lack of trying, but he would find that the bed had been aired, or remade, that the shelves had been swept, and he had caught the College’s resident Restoration Expert, Colette Marence, returning a set of robes to an otherwise empty wardrobe.

His enquiry into the identity of the room’s owner had been met with surprising hostility, and the Arch-Mage had warned him that Marence was particularly protective of her apprentices. He had, however, never found any records indicating that anyone had used the room in the last five years. It was, originally, owned by the College’s former Conjuration Master, a curious Redguard named Falion, but he had long since retired to Morthal, and presently served as Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone’s Court Mage.

High above, like a bird of prey, he watched the black hooded figure from his nightmares dispatch the ward with a careless wave of a pale hand. He heard a heavy sigh, the vibrations of which he felt in his bones, and he watched long, bony fingers untie a sash dyed a rusty iron – on which a dull steel dagger was sheathed – and discard their unrepairable travel wear.

Without seeing their face, he could not be sure it was the same entity, especially since the robe hid all illusions of gender. The figure before him, however, was decidedly feminine in form, and he did not know of any man, regardless of race, willing to grow their hair _that_ long. It had been extensively braided – the tail of which brushed the floor – a painstaking process, despite the simplicity of the design, and it was in dire need of a wash.

The clothing beneath, heavy robes dyed a deep mustard, were awarded to students within the College that passed their Adept Exams in a select school of magic. He could not see the badge clasped across her chest, and thus had no way of identifying the school she specialised in, but he had to acknowledge the fact that the robes had been hand tailored for her. She had not stolen them. That meant the Arch Mage had been expecting her to return, and he deduced that she must be of considerably high social standing for the Dunmer to refuse lending out her room, especially to a member of the High Aldmeri Dominion.

Emerging from the shadows, she circled the font of Magelight in the centre of the Hall and climbed the stairs. Slipping back inside his room, he watched her pace past him, head down, a folded bundle of clothing in her arms, and he was surprised to find her so glaringly short. He could not determine if she possessed the ears of his cousins, but her pale skin implied she was a Breton. A human. Not a beast conjured by Vaermina to haunt his dreams, then.

Auri-el had smiled on him again.

With that settled, and feeling far more confident, he peeked his head out just in time to watch her levitate a large wash basin to the ground. The very thought that she would strip and bathe in _his_ presence infuriated him. He had every right to his privacy. If she was _that_ desperate to wash, then she could scrub her sickly skin clean in her _own_ quarters, _not_ across from _his_.

To his great relief, she did not immediately disrobe, but instead drop her possessions into the tub and levitate it across the Hall. As it rose over the bannister and descended to the floor below, he caught his first glance of her face.

In the Magelight, her features were startling. Her eyes were narrow, heavily hooded, and shaped like almonds. Coupled with her high cheekbones and the severe contorts of her sharp jaw, there was a very high probability that she possessed mer blood, and that one of her more recent ancestors was, in fact, an elf. If not for her grey-tinged skin and fierce orbs of perpetually exploding infernos, he would have believed her the bastard offspring of an exiled Altmer and a Breton.

If she was naturally blonde, which she appeared to be, then there was likely some Nordic blood within her, as well, and once her face fell out of the glaring light, he could not deny that her swarthy complexion befitted an Imperial better than a Dunmer.

She was proving to be quite the puzzle. One he would, of course, enjoy unravelling.

When she stopped, he slid back behind the walls of his room. He swallowed his fear – because he could _not_ be afraid of such a mutilated mortal, no matter what her eyes did to him – and when he peeked around the corner, he caught the ghost of a wickedly toothy grin, one that even the most fanatic of Bosmer would back away from in horror.

An incalculable amount of time passed before he caught his breath and found his feet, but merely standing stole all thought from his mind, savour the scene before him.

She stood bare before his eyes, standing in in the steaming basin, sudsy water clinging to her ample curves as she scrubbed the dirt and grime from her body. The ward that barred unwanted access to her room distorted the image, but only marginally, and he could not help but watch her hands massaging her large breasts, or how her fingers combed through sun-spun strands of liquid gold, or how the blanket she wrapped around herself carefully caressed the myriad of scars that cut through her skin.

In that moment, treacherous as it was, he wanted nothing more than to weigh her breasts in his hands, to brush the tangles from her hair and braid it himself, to kiss ever crevasse, lick every scar, and explore her body, committing every nook and cranny to memory.

When she crawled into bed, naked, skin still flushed from her hot bath, he could not bear to walk down there, to her room, and commandeer the basin. He could not levitate it up the stairs, nor could be been seen carrying it to his quarters.

As such despicable fantasies danced around his head, boldly and blatantly declaring that he would not be sleeping tonight, he took to his desk, armed himself with parchment and quill, and sat down to write a letter to his mistress. Sitting still was torture, but he would endure.

He _had_ to endure, or he would surely perish.


	2. In the Face of Fear

Ancano shied away from the light that exploded overhead. The days in Winterhold were extensively short in comparison to the rest of Skyrim, second only to those of Windhelm in winter, (or so he had been told). He had always been a morning person, but by the time Skyrim's sickly silver sunlight bled (or _blasted_ ) through the clouds and the thick enchanted panels of glass that passed for windows, half the morning had already flown by.

There was nothing _he_ could do about it, not when it was hazardous for even Nords to brave walking through the courtyard before noon, and his lack of progress in the morning demanded he worked late into the night, leaving him destined to repeat the cycle day in and day out, with no end in sight.

Even after eight months – from First Seed to Frostfall, the beginning of spring (at least in the west) to, in his mind, the _true_ onset of winter – Ancano had nothing to show for his efforts, but the Ambassador’s Wizards insisted that there was something powerful in, or near, the College. The castle grounds were extensive, and it would take him several more months, if not an entire year, to search them unaided, especially in such barbaric weather conditions.

There was very little Ancano would _not_ give to return to his glorious home in Alinor. Being reassigned to the Embassy on the frozen mountain tops of Haafingar, or even the frigid Fort of Northwatch Keep – built before the mouth of Ghost Sea – would be preferable to surviving in the city named _Winter-Hold_.

Returning to the Embassy, however, would demand proof of success, or a substantial amount of evidence that left the Arch-Mage powerless to act against the Aldmeri Dominion’s better judgement. Failure would see him stationed on sentry duty at Northwatch with no ship in sight, and not that any would ever risk ferrying him home.

Heaving out a sigh, acknowledging that his time would be better spent finishing off the paperwork he neglected last night, Ancano drew his stiff arms down to rub the remnants of sleep from his eyes.

Or, he _would_ have, had they not been restrained.

Quickly blinking his eyes free of fog, Ancano sneered at the bright ball of white-gold Candlelight hovering overhead. He had no recollection of casting the spell, which meant someone else had gained access to his no-so-private quarters, and the intensity of the colour declared that it had been cast but seconds ago. They were still here, hiding in the shadows, and the light served to illuminate his bindings in a spectacular fashion.

He eyed the threads warily. They shimmered and sparkled mesmerizingly, absorbing and reflecting the light like nothing he had ever seen, though it bore a discomforting similarity to the elaborate spider webs back home, the ones covered in morning dew he found among the orchard trees in his parents’ garden as a child.

Shaking his mind free from melancholy, Ancano’s first thought was of Elenwen. She had warned him, repeatedly, that she was growing impatient. Her letters never disclosed that, not to the untrained eye, but Ancano had learned to read between the lines (and look between the trees) from a young age. What he saw always disturbed him, but over his many decades, he had grown expertly efficient at hiding it.

That she would come here, in person, to the College, and make good on her threat had the Altmer praying for a dragon attack.

He waited, listening intently, but he could not hear anything over the howling wind or see anything beyond the whitewash of snow and ice outside the window. Someone would come for him if one of Akatosh’s children _did_ attack. Even here, there were few that could match him in combat, especially when it came to offensive magic. Alas, Ancano could not hear feet pounding up the stairs, bestial roars riding the wind, or the pitiful screams of the local heathens praying to their false God for victory in the face of certain death.

Ancano lay still and silent for what felt like an era. He could not comprehend why the Ambassador would risk his mission, or why she would restrain him on his bed. It had taken a while to acclimatise to the heavy food, but after several weeks at sea, the thick mattress and even thicker fur blankets were godsends. At times, he could even forget about the tortuously cold weather and –

Her reasoning dawned on him far too late for his liking, and Ancano shivered in anticipation. It was ingenious in its simplicity. Punishing him, torturing him, in his own room proved that there was nowhere he could hide, nowhere where she could not find him, nowhere she would not go, no matter the risk, if he failed to deliver her prize.

He only hoped that she had not come to re-educate him, but simply to impose a friendly reminder of her expectations. His first words would determine his sentence, and Ancano did not know if obedient grovelling or a show of pride would win her favour.

“Ancano.”

Too late.

He was too late. He had waited too long and displeased her, but he had no way of knowing if apologising would salvage his prospects… or doom them.

“Ancano?”

“Madam, I –”

His own voice betrayed him! Ancano clamped his mouth shut and refocused his efforts on calming his nerves. If he could not speak, especially when it was so very clear his mistress wanted to hear what little he had to say, then there was no hope for him.

“Ancano!”

He turned to her voice, ready for whatever came next. Th Candlelight blinded him. It was sufficiently darkened, permitting him to see, and Ancano was loathed to find that it was not, as he had first assumed, the face of his Ambassador glaring at him from the darkness. It was the disgusting, malformed mask of the Arch Mage’s favourite.

She was a deviously despicable mortal, that much he knew, but Ancano was at a distinct disadvantage because he knew little else, savour that she was an Adept Destructionist and likely to pass her Expert Conjuration Examination with flying colours.

Three days ago, Ancano had made the… miscalculation of challenging her to a duel. She had walked in on Tolfdir lecturing the new Novices, but upon sighting him she seemed to forget whatever she had been sent to do. He had not seen her face, not at first, and the shadows her hood cast, coupled with the impressive cut of her robes, presented quite an imposing figure. They declared her an Expert Restorationist, and when she approached, when her aura collided with his own, in a moment of weakness Ancano had taken an ungracious step back.

He had no words to convey the power she wielded, no way to avoid the raw, unrestrained energy that coiled around her like a serpent. It slammed against him like waves against a boat in a storm. He would have looked around for the true Wizard, had he not been inexplicably drawn to her presence. She was short, too short to be anything but a Bosmer or a Breton, and Ancano had to fight between choosing among his distant – _very_ distant – cousins. There was, without a doubt, Altmer blood in her lineage – she would not be half as powerful without it – but when she removed her hood, he had been horrified at what lay beneath.

Her ears were rounded, not pointed, declaring outright that she had a human mother. Her short stature also imposed the fact that this unknown woman was, indeed, a Breton, but her eyes – a fiery inferno of blood-red and a blistering, burning orange – implied that her father was, most likely, a Dunmer. That would, in theory, account for her magical prowess, as well as her high cheekbones, almond-shaped hooded eyes, and the severe contorts of her sharp jaw.

This, he realised, was the face of the woman who haunted his despicable dreams.

“Master Ancano,” she said, her voice just as smooth, and as cold, as ice, “I’ve been expecting you.”

It had taken no small amount of persistence and persuasion to get Savos Aran to accept him as an advisor, and her skull-splitting smile made Ancano wonder if she knew just _how_ difficult it had been to secure the position. Her teeth, mismatched and misaligned – a clear indication of inferior breeding – were whiter, larger, sharper than any Bosmer he knew, even those that followed the Green Pact with religious malice. They made exceptional spies and assassins, but he had the sinking feeling that this woman, with her long, Nordic blonde hair and rich, Imperial swarthy skin, would be more than a match for the most bloodthirsty Bosmer.

“And you are…?” he sneered, staring down his nose at her, an easy feat considering he was close to half a foot taller.

She tilted her head to the side, a subtle twist of corded muscles insidiously similar to the movements of an old Argonian Shadowscale he once had the honour of working with. When she extended her hand, it did not waver or shake in the slightest, and he eyed the fossilised black talons warily.

“Lady Lillian, Knight-Defender of Dibella.”

Her introduction and her voice had felt surprisingly warm, like the most expensive silk caressed by the summer sun, but the hand he accepted - it would have been inexorably rude to ignore her, and he did not have to feign interest - was unnaturally cold and deploringly callous, especially for a ‘ _Lady’_.

“You are a Priest?” he questioned, making no attempt to nullify his disapproval.

Ondolemar had warned him of their kind.

“Nothing of the sort,” she assured, smiling easily, naturally… beautifully.

Her fingers lingered in his longer than necessary – certainly longer than what would be considered appropriate or acceptable – and it had taken great pains for Ancano not to jump back, or retract his hands, as her nails glided down his pliant flesh.

He should _not_ want her to touch him – the _very_ idea made him nauseous –  and certainly _not_ in such a disgusting fashion. He should not _want_ to touch her, nor should he _want_ to learn if what his former Commander said about the Initiates was true.

Auri-el knew all. He _saw_ all. Ancano could not lie to him.

He could, however, play Daedra’s advocate.

“I’m sure you’re already aware of the vows Her Initiates take, so I won’t bore you. _I_ , however, have made no such promises because my duties require a very… _flexible_ skill set.”

Ancano had made a point of revising the demands of Dibellan religion that very afternoon, and he was discomforted to find how drastically Cyrodilic tradition differed from Skyrim’s. That was when he spied the ‘ _Lady’_ conversing feverishly with the dunderheaded librarian.

They were talking in hushed tones, leafing through dusty tomes, and crowding around an enlarged map of northern Skyrim. Another was marked with dozens of flags in a multitude of colours, but it lay abandoned, half hidden in shadow. Ancano was quite certain they were plotting something, and he had approached to discern the nature of their heated discussion.

He could not quite remember what he had said to her, or what she had said in response, but he _did_ know she had challenged his authority and he had, in turn, challenged her to a duel.

Darkness was making its swift descent as they navigated the cold stone passageways, arriving at the entrance to the grand hall from opposite sides of the castle almost in sync.

Almost.

She had been waiting for him.

He was greeted with a predatory smile.

The ground floor of the Hall of the Elements was conveniently deserted, but it did not stay that way for long. He had never been adept at guessing the age of humans, but despite her suffocating aura Ancano could not see her exceeding thirty winters, but her honest declaration that he was not the first to dual her made his heart skip a beat. When she walked passed him, he distinctly smelled the fresh scent of snowberries.

He was _not_ afraid.

Intrigued, yes. Cautious, most definitely so. He would even admit to feeling a little excited. It had been an entire season – more, near five months now – since he last had the pleasure of embarrassing and degrading the insignificant Imperialists. This one, though, ‘ _Lady_ Lillian’, would fight back, and Ancano was very much looking forward to proving his inherent superiority.

She was _nothing_ compared to him, and he would take great pleasure in reminding her of that.

In the Summerset Isles, especially in Alinor, official duels were greatly anticipated social events arranged months in advance, and the Wizards would fight until one surrendered or was sufficiently incapacitated. Ancano had learned in his youth that mages in Skyrim fought to the death, a barbaric practise that had never, thank Auri-el, gained popularity in Cyrodiil.

There was, however, no discussion of the rules of engagement, and as the Orc was the sole witness to his challenge it was his duty to begin, watch, and judge their duel. Unless one of them died. If so, Ancano knew it would not be him.

Auri-el was on his side.

He permitted himself to bow, but his eyes never left his opponent, and he watched her dip into a low curtsey worthy of royalty. Something squirmed in his chest, but he ignored the feeling. They turned their backs upon one another, took ten spaces apart, and on the count of three Ancano threw a fireball over his shoulder. It slammed into a Ward, dissipating on impact, and he was forced to dodge a bolt of lightning.

By the time he had gained the upper hand, cornering the ‘ _Lady’_ – she certainly did _not_ fight like one – behind a heavily burnt stone pillar, they had a sizable audience shouting all manner of insults and encouragement. Ancano paid them no heed and offered his opponent a final chance to surrender, as per the terms of _civilised_ combat, but he had, somehow, miscalculated her position and instead of rounding on her cowering figure he struck empty air, his Bound Sword carving an eternal scar through the grey stone.

Across the room, Ancano’s acute hearing picked up the tell-tale sound of _clap-ping_ , the sound the barrier between Nirn and Oblivion made when a mage broke through to summon… something. She had the skill to summon a powerful Storm Atronach earlier, and he would have been impressed to learn that, despite their battle, she had the strength to summon a second, but Ancano was not impressed.

Neither was he scared, or even remotely afraid.

He – was – _terrified_.


End file.
